


At Heel

by Les_gnossiennes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ass Play, BDSM, Bondage, Book and show canon mixture, Domme! Sansa, F/M, I mean I’m really pushing it here, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Sandor Clegane, PWP, Post-The Long Night, Smut, Someone is going to get dogwalked hard, Sub! Sandor, Zigzag fix-it fic, facesitting, shameless filth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27986532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Les_gnossiennes/pseuds/Les_gnossiennes
Summary: Sandor arrives at Winterfell to serve his lady, only to learn that being a filthy dog has its consequences.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the culmination of some thoughts flying around a Discord chat. While I'm using the television show for structure (and to get to the porn expediently), the characterizations are almost solely-book inspired.

It would have happened all too quickly on a normal night, let alone one where Sandor was as shitless with exhaustion and faded horror as he was in that moment. Her hand on his, the crinkle under her right eye, the way she looked at him with something that resembled a playful fondness. His lady had gifted him a piece of her pain freely, absolved him of all the guilt that had tailed him since they had last parted, and then grinned at him the same way kitchen wenches did back when he was a boy at Casterly Rock.

He had been an ugly shit then, too, but a sliver of hope quivered in his chest in those days—there was always some knock-kneed steward’s daughter who felt daring, or a starry-eyed girl who thrilled at seeing him send little lordlings flying into the mud. Those dalliances always followed a similar cadence: skirts were lifted, wineskins passed back and forth over bawdy conversation and childish dreams, and the faded smell of the Sunset Sea kept them placated with something that felt like happiness. That is, until a new handsome squire arrived, or a marriage to a pimply bricklayer’s son was brokered. And then the laughter was gone, and only the violence and wine remained.

And so it went, until he was nothing but a fucking husk of a man protecting that little Lannister cumstain from his own foolishness. By that point in Sandor’s shit life, the only scraps of affection he’d get were mostly from whores, who, thank the gods, kept sweet words out of their mouths. On occasion, there’d be a laundry woman who had fun bouncing on his lap for a turn and even more fun telling her friends that his prick almost made up for his hideousness. Almost.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t pretty or nice. But it kept him humble and reminded him of who he was.

But as the Little Bird sat across from him, lips pouted and eyes lidded, Sandor reluctantly felt like that boy again. Until he reminded himself that all she was giving him was her kindness and courtesy for true. And what shook him the most—what really caused his gut to roil—was the realization he would gladly drink from that well and never ask for anything more from her. It was all he deserved and more at the same time, even if her gently wrinkled nose and quiet laughter made him feel like a lad again.

“Your hair is short,” she commented over the brim of her wine glass.

“Had to keep it short with the brothers,” Sandor said, feeling his right cheek warm. Since he had left the Quiet Isle for the North, his hair had only grown down to his ears and was nowhere near long enough to comb over his scars as he used to. He fucking hated it. “I’m sorry if it offends my lady.”

“I like it. It suits you. And I can see your eyes,” she said, an edge in her voice that warned him not to challenge her. And she looked so gods damned commanding and sincere in her flattery that he bit his tongue and did her unspoken bidding like the dog he was.

When the lady had finally risen from their bench in the Great Hall and made for her quarters, she spared Sandor one last look over her shoulder. And in that second, he almost believed she meant for him to follow her.

_ Kindness and courtesy, _ he told himself, swallowing a large mouthful of wine. His cock was so hard it almost hurt, and he couldn’t remember a time he had ever felt so miserable. 

#

Sandor dreamt of a woman’s voice calling out to him across the darkness.

“Wake up, you lout!”

But even in his deepest, filthiest dreams, the Little Bird never sounded so uncouth or common or so old or so _fucking_ _annoying_.

“He’s been like this since last night,” a second, quieter voice whined. “Spent himself in two minutes then passed out in the bed. And he still hasn’t paid me.” A hand thumped him hard on his back, and then the second voice continued, snuffling all the while. “I haven’t slept a wink.”

_ Paid who?  _ he wondered, letting out a belch.

“I don’t give a Septa’s shit about your precious beauty sleep, Alyse. You are only as useful as that gash between your legs is,” said the first voice, and Sandor almost laughed. “Now shut your hole and help me get him up.”

_ Alyse?  _ He rolled over onto his back and grazed a hand over his bare chest, his head pounding so keenly that even the weak winter sunlight streaming through the dirty window vexed him.

“Oi! Ugly! This is a whorehouse I’m running, not an inn. Time to get  _ up _ and cough  _ up _ the coin what’s owed to me,” the first voice bellowed, wrenching the thin wool blanket off of his naked body.

“And me,” echoed the second voice. Alyse, he presumed.

“I said shut your hole, Alyse,” the first voice shot back.

It was the sudden cold that got him to open his eyes, and he blinked in disbelief at the portly woman and the snot-nosed Alyse staring at him like he was a rat shitting in the rushes.

The whore had been comely enough last night, after he left the Great Hall and skulked through the remains of the winter town. It had been years since he had been so drunk. Elder Brother’s watered wine and the lack of anything resembling a cunt for miles around the Quiet Isle had thoroughly unmanned Sandor by the time he had made his way to Winterfell. But then there was the ghost of the Little Bird’s palm rubbing his knuckles, that insistent smile that had him wondering what fucking cruel jape the Gods were playing on him now.

“The world almost ended, but it didn’t, and the Seven brought me you, m’lord,” the whore cooed at him as he stumbled past her in the muddy street.

“Perhaps the Gods are good if they let a whorehouse survive the long night,” Sandor barked back at her in a voice that no longer sounded like his own. And Alyse the snot-nosed whore laughed, hard and throatily, and fuck him if he wasn’t balls deep in her before he could even blink

_ “ _ Seven Hells,” he grumbled, pushing himself up on the stiff bed and reaching for his soiled clothing while the older woman crossed her arms and stared and Alyse cowered in the corner. “What happened to all your sweet fucking talk about the world ending, huh?” It was a stupid question, especially to a whore, he knew that well enough; even still—it surprised him, how quickly the world went back to sticking its nose in its own shit once it thought itself safe again.

“This one right here is tramp and not a poet,” spat the madam, sticking out a greedy palm and yanking Alyse by the ear with her free hand. “If you want poetry, my lord, go bugger a singer and leave my girls alone.”

#

By the time Sandor had dressed and paid his way out of the madam’s ire, the sun had almost struck its highest point in the sky. The air was thick with the sounds of the smallfolk: mending fences, demolishing burnt-out huts, hauling wood, puking up last night’s feast—he had almost thought to make himself useful and help, but the slow realization that they were all staring at him with the same fucking look made him reconsider.

_ Self-important twats _ .  _ Save them from their own fucking deaths and they still stare. They don’t deserve my fucking help. Or their lady’s. _

It was only when he noticed an old crumpled woman sniggering and jabbing her equally decrepit companion in the ribs that it occurred to Sandor how  _ loud  _ his little predicament in the brothel had been. The winter town had already been fairly small in happier times. If a fight broke out at the Smoking Log, one could easily hear it just as easily at the gates of the keep. After the marching dead, it had been comparatively reduced to nothing. If gossip traveled fast in large cities, it seemed to Sandor that it practically flew in a hellhole like this.

The tittering grew louder as he made his way back to the bailey; whether it was actually for true or just his throbbing head that magnified it, Sandor didn’t know, nor did he care.

_ Nosy, shit-stirring cunts _ .  _ The sooner I ride for King’s Landing, the better. _

He smiled at the thought of jamming his sword through his fucker of brother’s eye, the first time in a long time since he’d left the Quiet Isle. Elder Brother had discouraged such indulgences, to the point where Sandor had almost forgotten about Gregor, but seeing that goutish mug leering down at him in the Dragon Pit left him raw and hackled, a small child choking on smoke again.

As long as Gregor existed, nothing could be good.

He thought of the Little Bird, briefly. He supposed she was good. He  _ knew _ she was good.

The same notion that haunted Sandor as he had dug those countless graves flickered in his mind, down his spine, right to his cock.  _ He could be good for her. _

And as he thought about getting down on his knees and doing whatever the fuck she asked of him, he was struck by the image of the Little Bird turning him away again, having reached the limits of her kindness and courtesy, such was allowed to a beast. It was as his life always was, and the thought was gone.

#

If there was anyone as desperate to leave Winterfell as much as Sandor, it was Stranger. It was midmorning the next day, and the horse was proving to be near impossible to saddle properly, even by his master. The cold bit through the blankets the poor stable boy had practically flung on the courser’s back, and even Sandor’s rough coddling seemed to needle at away at his patience.

“Poor sod,” Sandor said, running a thick hand down Stranger’s nose. “Not your fault these useless bastards don’t know what to do with anything that isn’t a bloody pony.” He was trying to stay calm, but something about his companion’s disposition felt foreboding, as if the horse could smell trouble around the bend. And an omen of trouble was the last thing Sandor needed for his departure. He had hoped to slip away from Winterfell quietly and unnoticed, for reasons that were on the tip of his tongue but that he didn’t have the heart to say out loud. 

_ The Little Bird. _

She owned him, Sandor knew, and one word from her mouth would be enough to keep him from his revenge. And then what? What would his life be? Watching everyone else love her and lavish her with praise, while he groveled and whimpered for a smile and a kind word and nothing more.

_ Fuck that. _ Sandor was too frightened to call it love as he properly should, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to let the Little Bird or anyone else use that weakness to geld him like a dumb animal. And thus resolved, he packed as quickly as he could stomach and tried to coax Stranger into placidness.

When the horse had finally been tacked and watered, Sandor huffed nervously and fidgeted with the rein, the smell of hay and droppings filling his nose. Just as he had almost summoned the wherewithal to mount the warhorse and kick off into the fog, the massive stable doors groaned at his back.

_ Fuck. _

Even without turning around, Sandor knew his hour had finally and truly come.

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

_ # _

The footman escorting him to the Little Bird’s solar was some red-faced Mormont who regarded Sandor with the bearing usually reserved for shoveling shit. And that was what he felt like in that moment—a massive sack of shit being hauled off to the manure pile for burning. He had thought they would be heading to the throne room, or perhaps to the Great Hall during the morning meal, but no—it was to be her solar, which made him all the more anxious. As massive as Winterfell was, its rooms were cramped and pinched compared to the vaulted ceilings of the Red Keep, and standing in one did nothing to help Sandor feel at ease.

But trapped in close quarters with his mistress, terrified that he would have no choice but to bear her scorn, or worse, tell her he  _ loved _ her—that was what had him nearly pissing himself as his boots carried him across the castle. And the question of why he was being summoned, when he was sure she had said all she had needed to say, when he thought of the angry whore Alyse and how everyone rolled their eyes at him—

He was shaken from his fearful reverie by a curt knock on the door in front of him.

“Sandor Clegane, my lady,” snipped the footman, opening the door slightly ajar and looking glad to be rid of the giant’s company.

“Let him enter alone, ” he heard her respond tonelessly. For a moment, Sandor stood thunderstruck.  _ Alone. Alone. Alone. Fuck. Shit. Seven fucking shits in Seven fucking ballsmoked hells.  _ A gentle jab in the back and—

“You heard the mistress, Clegane. Don’t keep her waiting.”

Mormont’s attitude incensed his already anxious state.

“Touch me again, and I’ll clock that fucking smirk off your face. And  _ you _ won’t have to wait for it neither.”

But the man only snickered and sauntered off down the hall, completely disinterested in his charge’s harried threats. And it somehow made Sandor feel even more trapped and powerless than he had felt before.

#

The Little Bird’s chambers were warm and buttery-hued from the hearth, the rooms small but comfortably furnished, meandering off one another like a small girl’s daisy chain. The solar itself was outfitted with several cushioned chairs, a massive ironwood desk, and a large wolfskin rug that would have swallowed even someone as large as Sandor. But when he had finally summoned the nerve to enter, he was almost immediately confused. There was no regal Lady of Winterfell standing in the center of the floor, staring at him with eyes frozen.. Fuck it, there was no sweet girl beckoning to him by the fire, pleading with him to kiss her feet and swear loyalty to her, like something out of the songs, like something he almost hoped would happen.

Instead, she was standing at the window with her back to the door, her spine ramrod straight and mein unfathomable from his point of view.

“My lady—“ he started, uncomfortable.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

In that moment, Sandor saw every one of her moods. The Little Bird had chided him before, called him awful and all manner of monstrous words that were true. She had cried with him, laughed with him, and cowered from him. But he nearly shit himself when he realized this clipped, brusque tone was something altogether new and foreign.

“Drink.” She gestured towards the snifter and goblet on a table near the hearth, and he was in no fucking position to turn down wine. He shuffled over to the pewter tray they laid upon and poured himself a shaky and fucking large serving. Down the gullet it went, so quickly that Sandor thought he might puked. When had started on his second cup, he noticed she still turned away.

“Sansa?” He used his softest voice, tried to be as sweet and timid as his useless, shit-brained could manage. 

“I said  _ don’t _ ,” she whispered, in something almost like a hiss. Sandor caught the way her pale hands curled into her palms, flexing and unflexing so minutely that it would have been difficult to notice, were the room not so empty and the cold radiating off of her so thickly.

“You will listen to me,” she said. “And you will listen well.”

_ An order. As I said-- _

“I cried for you,” Sansa started. “I cried and prayed for you nearly every day since the Bread Riots. When you mocked me and tried to scare me as a girl, I only hoped for you to see the error of your ways. When you held a knife at my throat, I called out to the Mother to calm you. To let you know peace. When I found out you died—“ and here she paused, her voice quavering, Sandor swaying in shame as she aired out all of his past transgressions. “—When I  _ thought  _ you were dead, I wept for days. I petitioned the Old Gods and the New to take mercy on you. To let your soul see some happiness wherever it went—“

“The Gods,” Sandor scoffed, annoyance simmering. 

“ _ Quiet! _ ”

Her anger hung in the air and Sandor would have ran had he not been so transfixed by it. The wine was like cement in his throat, and swallowing it hurt.

“I don’t think I’ve ever prayed for anyone as I’ve prayed for you. And imagine how I felt when you appeared again in Winterfell, dressed like a man of faith—“ she laughed bitterly here, “And quiet and considerate. And here to fight for my family. For Jon. For-for me.”

“I thought there was, perhaps, something good left to this world. That my prayers were not in vain—but moreover, that…. That my  _ heart _ had been right about the one thing I knew to be true—that you were only scared and sad and had so much potential…. I-I hadn’t tasted happiness or hope like that in a long time.”

_ Happiness. Hope. _ Sandor thought he was going to vomit, the words gagged him as he pondered them.

“And then you left me alone and cold after the feast. I suppose that was understandable, yes, but…. to find out that you went off whoring and drinking again and puking, like the beast you were—are—I haven’t felt so humiliated in a long time.” She paused. “And you know well about my many brushes with humiliation,  _ Hound. _ ”

Sandor might as well have been summoned to a chopping block or to a fucking pyre like those fire-worshipping cunts loved, for all the shame he felt towards himself, for all the anger he felt at the Little Bird for making him out to be a man he wasn’t.

“I don’t know why I don’t expect my dreams to end up as anything but ashes in my mouth,” she said, and he could hear the struggle between tears and rage swirling round her pale throat. “I hope and hope and hope, and yet every single time I am disappointed. I just didn’t expect to be disappointed by  _ you _ this time.”

Her shoulders crumpled, and for a few moments, there was nothing but silence. When a small, pitiful sob finally keened across the room, Sandor felt all sense of reason leave his body.

“I never asked for that fucking burden,” he snarled, nearly dropping his wine as stormed across the rug, just inches from her shoulders. He wanted to turn her round by her round shoulders and shake the ever-loving shit out of her until she stopped talking like a simpleton. “I never wanted to be one of your handsome knights or peaceful doves, and you should know better than anyone else! A knife at your throat, my cock at your hips, and yet you talk about me like I’m one of your pretty fucking projects.” 

At this, Sandor saw Sansa’s hands uncurl and arms go limp at her sides like one of her dolls from so long ago. He knew he should stop, knew he should quiet on down, apologize, beg for mercy, beg for forgiveness, beg to lick the bottom of her feet and fucking like it, right there in that moment, but—

“I am leaving because I want to leave. I am leaving because, yes, I am awful, as you say, and because I want to kill my cunt brother and fucking die in a ditch again and be at fucking peace and not have some girl crying for me and treating me like one of her stupid knight.”

It was quiet again, and the collective anger throbbed so hotly that Sandor was sure it could melt the stone walls of this pissforsaken place. He heard the lady take a deep breath, and watched as she turned on her tiny feet, eyes bright like a deadly fever.

“Oh, Sandor,” she said, almost sneering.  _ Since when did Little Birds sneer?  _ “I have no intention of treating you like a stupid knight.”

Sandor threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Then why waste my fucking time,  _ my lady? _ ”

He thought the acid in voice would cower her--or at least get a rise out of her. But Sansa stood there unblinking, staring right into his eyes. The softness at the feast was gone, and it had congealed into something horrible.

“I have no intention you of treating you like a knight,” she repeated in a queer, soft voice. “I intend on treating you like the filthy old dog you are.”

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this was only going be a two chapter ordeal, but I felt compelled to sit with Sansa for a hot second. She's aged to 20 and Sandor to 32, for those who need to know. As this story is mostly book based, the Ramsay subplot from the show never happened.

  
  


_ What was it that men liked to say—that poison was a woman’s weapon? _

Sansa had forgotten the number of times she’d heard those words fall from so many long-dead mouths. There were men who said it like Father or Ser Rodrick, his old Master-At-Arms—swords would knell across the yard, and it’d be shouted out to mock the green boys who were lagging behind or doubting themselves.

She recalled a memory, like breath on cold glass, of Robb getting slammed in the face so hard by the hilt of Jon’s blunted sword that it knocked him straight to the ground. He couldn’t have been older than seven, maybe eight, crying for Mother and cupping his lower lip, which had split down the middle. Sansa had been sitting in the crude stalls at the edge of the paddock, engrossed in the ball of yarn Septa Mordane had tasked her with winding up neatly, when Robb’s howls had forced her head upwards. A feckless child, she abandoned her project into the dirt and toddled up as close as the gate would allow.

“Stand, little lord,” encouraged Ser Rodrick, helping her brother to his small feet with the sort of gruff affection he had shown all of the young lads. “Don’t weep, now. You’re nearly a man, and what would your father think?”

It didn’t seem like her brother cared at all what Father would think, and Sansa understood. Robb was wracked with sobs to the point of shaking, blood dripping down his chin. “It h-hurts,” he stuttered, unaware that the rest of the yard was now staring at him with pity and embarrassment. “It  _ h-h-hurts! _ ”

Jon stood a foot away, speechless and close to tears of his own. “I didn’t mean to,” he kept saying to anyone who would listen, but mostly to himself, so Sansa thought. Like the way she poured her soul out to her dolls. “I didn’t mean to.”

_ Whoever  _ **_meant_ ** _to hurt someone they loved like that,_ she wanted to tell him, bastard brother or not. 

“Of course you didn’t bloody mean to,” snipped Ser Rodrick, his patience with the lot of them fraying fast. “But you both will be lucky if all you ever meet from a sword is the pommel. Better that than a blade to the neck, or worse—poisoned and bewitched by some lady looking for your kisses, now.”

When this caused Robb to wince with a new, different sense of disgust, the large man laughed and whistled at some older boy to take her brothers to Maester Luwin. As she watched them being frogmarched away, tailed by the strange Ironborn boy, Sansa picked up her soiled yarn and wondered what Ser Rodrick had meant by that.

Everyone knew maidens and princesses and queens all got kisses by being pretty and good. It was as the songs said.

#

Sandor had taken the bait beautifully; Sansa couldn’t decide if she was still furious at him for his fresh transgressions or pleased by her own cleverness. He was two cups into the wine she had given him and starting to sway on his feet, his slate eyes looking feverish and dull. He was dressed for travel, wearing a thick woolen cloak and a leather jerkin so dark that it reminded her of the terrifying armor he once donned. As he roared at her for wasting his time, looking every measure as pitiable as he did in King’s Landing, Sansa conjured up her mask, as whittled and perfected as time had left it.

“I intend on treating you like the filthy old dog you are,” she responded, once he finally quieted.

Again Sandor laughed at her, the sound of it something she hadn’t heard in years, not since he had pressed her against the walls of the Serpentine Steps and treated her like an idiot.  _ He still thinks he knows everything there is to know about the world. That is good. _

_ “ _ You don’t understand the first thing about how to treat dogs like me,” he jeered, the right side of his lip curling, the left twitching madly in tandem. “They make you lady of this pisshole, and now suddenly you’re the cunt queen of everything, is that it?”

Sansa nearly clapped her hands in delight. 

_ He is  _ **_so_ ** _ stupid about some things. _

Nevertheless, she let him continue.

“Heard about your little imp husband who couldn’t even get his prick into you once for all his sweet courtesy. And how do you treat him now? Pretty fucking friendly, it seems, like he still wouldn’t trade all of his bloody gold to get between your legs. Did he ever tell you what happened to  _ his _ first whore wife?”

_ So terribly stupid. _

“And what of Littlefinger, then?” He swayed once more, and this time Sansa swore he nearly stumbled over his massive feet. “Did you give that nonce a kiss on his cock as thanks? Did you kiss it before he tried to marry you off to that prince from the Vale what got a lance shoved up his greasy cunt? Or after, when the little wolf bitch slashed his throat for your amusement?”

_ It is almost endearing, how wrong, wrong, wrong he is,  _ Sansa thought. She clasped her hands in front of her and forced out a half-smile.  _ He would sooner chew off his own leg if he were caught in a bear trap than ask for help. _

“All out of words now?” Sandor spat, a fleck of spittle running down his lips. “For once in your fucking life.” He paused. “Or is it that you mean to set your sister on me, and put me out of my misery, too?” 

The solar ran thick with his rage, and yet Sansa could not find it in her to be scared. It was a tantrum, she knew, and nothing more—what scared children when they didn’t have words to express themselves, what they could only do until you smacked them across the bottom. 

“Sandor,” she answered softly, “Come sit on my bed with me.” It seemed Sansa left her own body and watched from the other side of the room as he foundered and leaned against the small table where the decanter sat. Whether it was her words or the wine that beguiled him, Sansa did not particularly care—it only mattered that she was so close to where she wanted and needed the brute to be.

“You’re mocking me,” he said at length, and there was enough pain on his face that Sansa almost regretted her scheming. 

Almost. 

Undaunted, Sansa went over to a second door just off the side of her writing desk and unlocked it with a key on the massive ring at her waist. When she nudged the door open, it swung silently on the well-oiled hinges.

“Sandor,” she repeated, her gaze even. “Come sit.”

Her mask almost shattered again as she watched his eyes laze over her body and then slip down to his feet. When Sandor’s head dropped to his mammoth chest, his nose pushing out labored tufts of air, Sansa was struck by a sudden, sad compulsion to cradle his burnt cheek in her hand, just as she had done the night he had kissed her. She wondered if such gentleness would yield the same results, when—

“I can’t do this,” he whispered, his voice detached, as if his soul had been wrenched a hundred leagues away. She shivered. 

_ Do not pity him. He does not want it, nor do you want to give it to him. You want to show him who you are. You want to show him the wolf. _

And so, as a woman possessed not by demons nor drink nor anyone else’s designs but her own, Sansa crossed the room and thrust a pale, steady hand onto the terrifying mass between Sandor’s thighs.

“Sandor. **Sit.** ”

# 

From birth, Father and Mother had done their best to prepare Sansa in leading by example. To be gracious, courteous, chaste, charming—to give the small folk of Winterfell, her sister, the Seven Kingdoms a pillar of virtue upon which to wonder. As a girl, she would lie awake long into the night and stare at each flower and unicorn embroidered into her bed’s canopy, imagining them as faces calling out her name, exhalting her beauty and feminine wisdom. Perhaps she would never be a leader for true—that duty would fall onto her lord husband’s shoulders, of course—but even then, she realized that to be loved was a form of power in and of itself. Others had told her that her only authority lie in her quim, but they were crude and stupid and dead. Or they would be, soon.

And no one had ever loved the Hound. So what power did he truly have?

Sansa would show him this truth, his own wretched and flesh-bound weakness, by leading him—if not by his heart, then by his own cock, into her own bed.

It amazed her what a soft palm and a pinch of henbane could do to a man as large as Sandor, so easy it was to guide him by his staff to the edge of the mattress. When he sat down upon the goose down mattress, a small  _ pfuh  _ emitted from its heft, the only sound in the room her ears noticed, besides the hearth and his heavy breathing. It was bright outside, but that didn’t matter terribly—not when Sansa had so much she still needed to do.

“Stay.”

This time, he only nodded his consent, eyes hooded and mouth dangled open slightly, revealing his jagged lower teeth.

“Good.” Sansa rewarded him by releasing his crotch, and tapping him lightly on the hairless, scarred side of his scalp.  _ Could he feel it?  _ She desperately wanted to ask. 

“Wait for me here,” was all she said instead. Before she could lose her nerve, Sansa retreated back into the solar to grab the snifter and his cup. But far from only wanting him to imbibe, she also desired a moment to catch her breath. To rally her spirits. To tell herself that what she was about to do wasn’t going to send her to the deepest hells the Seven saved for people like her.

_ For people like Sandor, _ she imagined.

When she returned to the bedroom, he was already passed out, eyelids fluttering delicately, or as delicately a man such as him could muster.

She set the wine down.

There was work to be done. Father always said whoever passed the sentence should swing the sword, after all.

And though Septa Mordane may have showed the young lady how to wind up a ball of yarn, she never taught Sansa how to tie a rope.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Smut to come ;)


End file.
